The Wrath of Fiona
by timewalker05
Summary: When a job goes bad and Michael goes missing, it’s up to Fiona and Sam, with the help of a few friends, to find him.


BURN NOTICE

The Wrath of Fiona

Chapter 1

Human Cargo

My name is Michael Westen. I used to be a spy.

There is a very simple rule every man should follow: Never mess with Fiona Glenanne. Wait. Let me add a corollary even more important: Never, ever, mess with someone Fiona Glenanne cares about.

******************************

Fiona raised the silenced Smith and Wesson and cocked her head to one side as she looked at the man on the ground. "Did you know that one of the best places to shoot someone is in the thigh?" she asked. "Lots of muscle." She slowly squeezed the trigger and there was a flash as a bullet tore out of the gun and into the man's right leg.

The man screamed and grabbed at his leg.

"It doesn't do any lasting damage," she said, "but it hurts like hell."

"Please, I'll talk," the man moaned.

She lowered the gun and seemed to study him for a moment. "Of course," she continued, "you have to be a good shot." She raised the gun and squeezed the trigger again. A bullet tore into the man's left leg.

He screamed again. "Please, please, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

She lowered the gun and cocked her head to the side again, as if considering her next move. "Because if your aim is off just a little," she said, raising the gun and sighting down the barrel, "you can nick the bone. And then the poor bastard will walk with a limp for the rest of his life - if he doesn't bleed out."

The man was cringing and sobbing. "Oh, God, please. I promise. I'll talk. I'll talk."

Fiona squatted down next to him and leaned in very close. "Good," she said. "Where is Michael Westen?"

*********************************

**Forty-three hours earlier**:

Sam Axe, ex Navy Seal, ex-Military Intelligence operative, ex-FBI informant, peeled the label of his beer bottle and studied his companions with a wry smile. Michael Westen, his best friend and the leader of this merry trio, was a freelance spy who had been black listed. Someone, or rather, several very nasty and sneaky someones, had arranged for Michael to receive a burn notice. Now, he was stuck in his hometown of Miami with no money, no references, and no way to leave. Next to Michael, sipping daintily from a fruity drink with one of those little paper umbrellas, was Fiona Glennane, former bank robber and gun-runner for the IRA until she got tired of her bosses telling her what to do. Now she was a free-lancer of a sort as well, although her employers were not the intelligence agencies Michael used to work for, but generally the people those agencies were investigating.

"Well, I think he seemed rather sweet," Fiona was saying.

Michael shook his head. "Fi, he was a bank robber."

"And what's wrong with bank robbers?" Fiona asked. "It takes a very particular skill set to be a good bank robber."

"But he wasn't a very good bank robber," Michael said.

"Well, yes," Fiona said. "The fact that he's in jail now probably does mean he wasn't very good."

A cell phone rang and they all three looked down to see if it was theirs. "Mine," Michael said. He sighed and hit the button to answer the call. "Yes, Mom?"

Sam smiled. Madeline Westen was the bane of her son's existence, but he really did care about her, no matter how crazy she drove him. "Okay, Mom," Michael said, and then he ended the call.

"Plumbing problem?" Sam asked. "Squirrels in the attic?"

"Ride to her yoga class?" Fiona offered.

Michael gave both of them a disgusted look. "My mother's friend has a problem and she and the friend are at her house waiting to talk to me. C'mon, Sam." Michael stood.

"What do you mean, c'mon Sam?" Sam asked. "I helped you with your mother's podiatrist's nephew's problem. Isn't it Fi's turn?"

Fiona stood, picked up her purse, and did a hair-flipping, spinning turn. "_I_ have a salon appointment," Fiona said haughtily. "Have fun, Michael. Sam."

"So what's the case?" Sam asked.

"You make it sound like we're private investigators," Michael said. "Probably a neighbor who got conned in an internet scam or something."

"Michael," Sam asked as they walked to Michael's car. "When has it ever been that simple with your mother?"

Michael sighed. "Hope springs eternal, Sam."

******************************

Madeline Westen still lived in the same modest, two-story house Michael grew up in. After all these years, it still gave Michael pause climbing the front steps. He had been so eager to get away from this house and his father that he had joined the military at age seventeen. Now his father was long gone, but his mother still maintained the house as a shrine to the normal, happy domestic life that had never really existed within. It was an unseasonably cool day in Miami, so the front door was open.

"Come in, Michael," Madeline called when she saw Michael through the screen door. "Oh, good, you brought Sam."

"Hello, Maddy," Sam said, nodding slightly to her when he entered the house.

With Madeline was a slightly older Cuban man with a handle-bar mustache and wearing a suit several years out of fashion.

"Michael, Sam," Madeline said. "I would like you to meet Raul. I met him at my Pilates class."

Michael looked at his mother. "You took Pilates?" Madeline, a cigarette dangling from between two fingers, was not someone you would expect to be meeting people in a workout class.

"I went once," Madeline said. "But then my bunko night moved to Tuesdays and I couldn't make it anymore."

"Yeah," Michael said. He offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Raul. I'm not sure what my mother has told you…"

Raul took Michael's hand. His grip was firm. "Raul Castro," the man said. He had a thick Cuban accent. "Yes, that dog Fidel is a distant cousin." It was obvious he was used to the question.

"I'll go make some coffee," Madeline said cheerfully and went into the kitchen.

"So tell me about your problem," Michael said.

"My family left Cuba when I was a teenager," Raul said. "My father had been a member of the Cuban military before the revolution. He initially supported the revolution, but grew disenchanted when Fidel turned communist. He was always under suspicion after that, but there was never enough evidence to move against him. He was still popular with certain members of the revolutionary council. Finally, he received word that they were going to come for him. He took my mother, my sister and me and fled here to the United States. Unfortunately, my younger brother was in school and we were not able to bring him with us. He stayed in Cuba and was raised by my uncle."

"Did they retaliate against the kid or your uncle?" Sam asked.

"Nothing overt," Raul said. "Minor hassles, that sort of thing. My brother laid low. He married and has a wife and two young daughters. But he always hated Fidel for splitting his family apart. When the regime loosened restrictions a little after the Pope's visit in 1998, he joined with some others in resisting the communists. Then, when Fidel became ill and it looked like restrictions would ease even more, he became more open in his criticism of the government. But the Cuban 'perestroika' was an illusion. They threatened to arrest him."

"I'm sorry," Michael said. "For… various reasons… my activities are limited to the Miami area. If you're looking for someone to get your brother out of Cuba…"

"No," Raul said. "That is not my problem. Well, in a way it is, but… You see, my brother was finally able to contact me in 1998 and we have corresponded ever since. I sent him money, some goods to sell on the black market, that sort of thing. Then he contacted me three months ago and told me that they were going to arrest him and his wife and take away their two daughters. He asked me if there was anything I could do."

"So you hired a coyote to get him out," Michael said.

Raul nodded. "Coyote. We generally do not use that term, but yes. I hired a man to smuggle my brother and his family out of Cuba and here to the United States. I paid him $25,000. It was all my life savings, but I had to get my brother and his family out."

"And now he wants more money," Sam said.

"Yes," Raul sighed. "He said that he had brought my brother and his family out of Cuba, but he would not let them go unless I paid him another $25,000. I do not have that kind of money. If I sell my house, maybe I can raise it…"

"But you're afraid that you'll give him the money and still never see your brother and his family again."

Madeline came in with a tray with four coffee cups. Michael took one and set it down on the coffee table. "Jesus, Michael, Madeline said. "How many times do I have to tell you to use a coaster?" Michael looked down at the surface of the table, which was covered in cigarette burns, and he sighed. He took the coaster handed to him by Sam and put his cup on it.

"So what is it you think I can do to help?" Michael asked.

"Madeline said that you helped people when no one else could. I cannot go to the police. I paid a man to smuggle my brother into the United States."

"These people smugglers are pretty nasty characters," Sam said.

"But I met this man at church," Raul said. "I thought he was an honorable man. Now he has my money and my family."

"His brother has two little girls, Michael," Madeline Westen said. "You have to help him."

Michael glanced over at Sam. "Whatever you decide, Mike," Sam said. "I got your back."

"So tell me everything you know about this smuggler," Michael said.

"His name is Miguel Roca. I met him at St. Michael's Church, my home parish in Little Havana…"

*********************************

Michael returned to his loft after the meeting with his new client, Raul Castro. Sam had gone to nose around with some of his old friends in the government to see if he could dig up any information on Miguel Roca and people smuggling in the Miami area.

Michael's door opened and Fiona walked in, carrying two shopping bags.

"What a wonderful place, Michael," she said. "I don't know why I haven't been spending more time at spas before."

"Because you're too busy with various illegal activities?" Michael asked.

"Don't be an ass, Michael. Besides, your nose isn't the exactly the cleanest lately either."

Michael shook his head. "You look great, Fi. What's in the bags?"

"Oh, they were selling some of these beauty products and I thought I would stock up. You never know when the right man will come along." Fiona dropped the bags on the bed.

"And how will you know him when he appears?" Michael asked.

"Handsome, debonair, excellent tactical sense," Fiona said. She went to the refrigerator and took out a blueberry yogurt. "Or maybe I should be looking for a rich man to take care of me."

"Because money has always been so important to you," Michael said.

"Well, I'm not getting any younger," Fiona said. "Maybe I want a nice sugar daddy to take care of me."

Michael grinned. "Somehow I can't see you as a kept woman, Fi."

"Depends on who's doing the keeping," Fiona said, leaning over the other side of the counter from Michael.

The door banged open and Michael and Fiona both straightened.

"Hey, Mikey, I got the file on Miguel Roca. Not a nice guy." He dropped the file in front of Michael. "You got any beer?" he asked as he opened the refrigerator.

"Fresh out," Michael said.

"How come you never buy beer?" Sam asked.

"Because you're the only one who drinks it?" Michael asked.

"Hey, I'm out doing the legwork on your Mom's latest crusade. The least you can do is buy me beer."

"I'll pick some up the next time I'm out," Michael said absently as he leafed through the file.

"So what is your Mom's latest pet project for you?" Fiona asked.

"Some guys who smuggle people into the country," Michael said. "A friend of my mother's paid Miguel Roca $25,000 to smuggle his brother, the brother's wife and two daughters out of Cuba. Now he says he wants another $25,000 or Raul Castro will never see his brother or his brother's family again."

"Miguel Roca?" Fiona asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. "You know him?"

"No," Fiona said. "There's not a lot of socializing between the gun smugglers and the people smugglers in Miami." She tilted her head to look at the file in front of Michael. "I can ask around, though."

"That's be great, Fi," Michael said.

"But you'll owe me dinner," Fiona said.

"Hey, I could eat," Sam said.

"I just bought lunch," Michael complained as the three headed out the door.

***

Author's Note: Special thank you to my friend, editor and proofreader, **Poa**, a recent convert to the _Burn Notice_ ranks.

This is my first pure _Burn Notice_ fic. Let me know what you think and if it's something you would be interested in reading more of.


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